


Exposed (2010)

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Gen, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5208440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Yard learns something new about Sherlock. A one-shot that says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposed (2010)

"Sit here and drink the hot chocolate, while I get things sorted." Lestrade settled his fourteen year old nephew into the chair behind his desk at New Scotland Yard, and then shouldered off his own coat, hanging it up alongside the jacket he'd taken from the boy moments before. Sam was already poking at the keyboard of the PC by the time Greg turned around, so he came around the desk and logged on, calling up the internet as quickly as he could. He watched his nephew's hunched shoulders start to relax as his hands flew over the keyboard, pulling up the pages of the latest Formula 1 sports news.

It was Bring a Child to Work Day, the fourth Tuesday in April. His sister Carole had arranged this weeks ago.

"Greg, I took him into the Library with me when he was twelve. Last year, it was Steven's turn, but Sam wasn't particularly impressed. Came back and said his dad 'played with a computer all day, and got paid to do it.' I've tried to get him off the computer long enough to engage with other people, so he wanted to know why it was OK for his dad but not for him. The school says it's important to give him as wide an exposure to different kinds of work environments as possible. As long as you promise not to take him to a crime scene where there is a body or blood, I think he can handle this."

Greg had spent half the night worrying about it. Sam did not like crowds of people he didn't know. He didn't like places that were unfamiliar. Both made him anxious. Carole had been firm, though. "He has to learn, Greg, we can't wrap him up forever; he has to find a way to tough it out. You've taken him lots of places one-on-one. He knows you. You'll be his anchor. As long as you don't disappear, he will be OK. And, if he does have a problem, I know I can count on you to help him sort it out. That's what this experience is supposed to be all about."

He'd agreed, because he liked Sam and wanted to do what he could to help his sister. But, looking around New Scotland Yard's offices, he worried whether it would prove in practice to be as good as it had sounded in theory. His team were currently trying to solve a murder that happened ten days ago, when the body of a security guard at a South Kensington Gallery was found hanging from the Albert Bridge in Chelsea.

The Met's Arts and Antiques Squad was now involved as well as his own team, because the murder might be connected to a large art smuggling ring, which had been behind the theft of masterpieces by Monet, Picasso, Matisse, Gaugin and Perugino in a single daring raid in Rotterdam last year. That was Sherlock's deduction anyway, and he'd spent the last few days in the Netherlands trying to track down that side of the case. He was due back today, and Greg hoped he'd come into the Yard, as his was another familiar face that Sam would know.

Over the past couple of years, Sherlock had taken a quiet interest in the boy, and spent several of the days with Greg when he'd been babysitting Sam for his sister. Generally speaking, Sam didn't "like" people of any sort, but he and Sherlock had a way of relating that worked. Greg was only glad that Carole didn't know about it; he wasn't sure that she'd approve of the way the consulting detective dealt with Sam. Sherlock never followed any of the rules or procedures that Carole had taught Greg to use when looking after Sam.

Greg looked into the team room from his office. People were beginning to drift in, coffees in hands, the odd doughnut, pastry or muffin in a bag- the breakfast of choice for the Met Murder Investigation Team that he ran. Greg had got her early to make sure that Sam could get settled, rather than walk into an already busy place full of faces he did not recognise.

He'd called a team briefing for 9am- needed a progress update from the various people working of different parts of the investigation. Unusually, Anderson from the Forensic Service would also attend today to shed light on some new evidence that had come to light after the second post mortem. That had been called at Sherlock's request. The text message from Rotterdam was simple-

**14.30   Check body for blue pigment, + organ damage.     SH**

By 9.03, Greg judged there were enough people in the room – but not too many for Sam to cope with, so he called his nephew away from his PC. Making no eye contact, he just said quietly, "this is the hard part, Sam. We've got to go in there and introduce you, so they know who you are and why you are here. After that, they won't be curious and I can get them focused on their work. If it bothers you that they are all looking at you, just keep your eyes on me. Can you do that?" Sam looked down at the floor and gave a small nod of his head.

Greg walked to the front of the room with Sam dogging his heels. Everyone looked up from their desks and the various places they'd perched around the room for the briefing- there were never enough chairs to go around, but it didn't matter because the briefings seldom took more than fifteen minutes or so. They all eyed the young boy curiously- he wasn't the usual sort of person they'd expect to see in the team room.

Greg took a deep breath. "Ok, this is my nephew, Sam Morgan, and he is here today with me. It's the fourth Tuesday in April, and that's Take a Child to Work Day for those of you unlucky enough not to have kids of your own or family's, who can benefit from the experience. He won't bite, and I've told him you've all had your rabies shots." A little ripple of amusement went through the group assembled. "He's going to be shadowing me today, but if he does ask you a question, do the decent thing and answer, without too much gory detail, please, I don't want him going home telling my sister the truth about what I get up to here." A few knowing smiles appeared; family members didn't always understand what a MIT officer did, and what they didn't know, didn't hurt them.

Just then Sally Donovan came in with CSE Anderson in tow. Greg just looked pointedly at the clock- late again. Sally had the sense to look a bit sheepish; Anderson just shrugged off Lestrade's glare.

"Right, now that we're  _all_  here, Anderson, give us the news about what you found when the body was re-examined."

Anderson smirked, happy to take the floor. He liked showing off to the officers his specialist forensic knowledge. "The re-examination was …." he paused here dramatically, "…inconclusive."

There was a collective groan. The other seven officers in the room needed a lead, and they needed it soon, or they were going to go crazy waiting for a breakthrough.

Anderson continued. "I have no idea what the Freak was trying to do, except to make us all run around in circles, but there was no blue paint on the body of the security guard, and no sign of organ damage from poisoning. We were sent on a wild goose chase, yet again."

Lestrade rubbed his forehead. "All right, people. Anyone got any other ideas? How did your enquires go with the fences?" He directed this toward PC Sanders, who was on secondment to the team from the Arts & Antiques Squad, who just shook his head. "Sorry, sir; not a whisper. I'm not convinced these five paintings have ever been in the country, and I don't see the connection with the security guard's death. I mean the Galliardi Gallery isn't into Impressionist painters or an Old Master like Perugino; the people running it are too busy selling cheap modern stuff to Middle Eastern buyers with more money than good taste."

Lestrade turned to PC Johnson. "What have you managed to dig up on the guard?"

"James Souter- 24 years old, Londoner. University graduate, but unable to get a job, until he took up security work at the Gallery. His mum knows one of the people who run it. Quiet guy, still living at home. No gambling debts, doesn't make enough to start paying off his university loans yet. Kind of a nobody, really. Maybe this really is a suicide."

Anderson snapped, "We've been over that; the injuries pre-mortem are definitely inflicted by a third party, enough to make suicide unlikely." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg saw Sam turn away from the people in the room. He was looking at the evidence board. Pride of place went to the five paintings stolen from the Rotterdam museum, with the artist and the dates they were painted underneath each one. The DI hoped the paintings would keep him interested, rather than lingering too long over the set of photos of the dead guard.

He pursed his lips and thought about what the best step forward was.

"Sir?" It was Sally Donovan, so Lestrade just gave her the floor. "What about looking for a different motive? We've been taken down the garden path toward robbery and the paintings from Rotterdam, but there's nothing other than the Freak's word to go on that they're even connected. Our investigation of the gallery owner's background shows he was in debt, and worried about what he owed. Maybe the loan sharks just got sick of waiting, and decided to scare him by trying to steal something from the gallery, and this guard just got in the way. I think we are over-complicating this unnecessarily. If we put more resource into tracking the people he owed money to, we might get somewhere."

Lestrade looked pained, but nodded. "OK, in the absence of any other ideas at this stage, take a look at those leads today, will you Donovan? Get back to me if you find anything. The rest of you need to close off the files. Anderson, don't go until you've finished the report in writing. An oral statement isn't enough." The CSE grimaced; he preferred the crime scene work, and delegated a lot of the form filling and report writing to one the Forensic team's more junior people.

The meeting was over, so people drifted to their various jobs. Greg turned to Sam, who was still riveted to the Evidence Board. He heard the phone in his office ring, so he just said quietly as he passed the boy, "I'll be in my office for a few minutes, you okay here?" Sam just nodded.

oOo

The call took longer than he thought it would. A witness on another investigation was threatening to sue the Met for harassment, so Lestrade had to spend a while getting the full story out. Sam drifted to one of the computers at an unoccupied desk, and started to do some internet research. Greg saw it, and relaxed. The boy would be out of trouble for a while.

He didn't notice when ten minutes later, Sam got up and walked over to where Anderson was ponderously typing in his report. "Excuse me, but, was ultramarine on the body?"

Anderson looked up. "Who are you?"

Sam didn't meet his eye, but just looked down to the side. "Sam." He gestured to Lestrade's office. "He's my uncle…ultramarine?"

Anderson just snickered. "Look, sonny, forensic investigation is a little complicated, so just take it from me, there was no paint involved." He returned to his typing.

The boy didn't leave. Anderson heard a little sigh. "Pigment, ultramarine; not paint."

Anderson looked at him again. Then he frowned at Sally Donovan who was just finished a telephone call. "I don't care whether you are the DI's nephew, you still are annoying me and stopping me from finishing this report, so best return to playing games on that computer over there and stay out of the way."

Rebuffed, Sam started to back away, still not looking at Anderson, who was beginning to realise that something wasn't quite… _normal_  about the boy. Most teenage boys would have said something smart mouthed, or made a rude gesture if they'd been told off.

Sam had taken a few steps away, but stopped. He turned and addressed the air somewhere above where Anderson was sitting. "Ultramarine. You make it with lye; it burns. That's what Sherlock said to look for."

Sally stood up, and approached Sam. "You know the Freak?" Anderson sniggered quietly behind her, "it takes one to know one" and laughed. Sally watched the effect on the boy. He might not have heard the words, but he caught the tone of the man's voice and he blinked in confusion. He hugged his arms to himself and turned away from the pair of them.

"Anderson, you are a first class prat." The baritone voice cut across the room.

It was Sally who responded first. "Oh, back from your travels then, Freak? Got more blind alleys for us to waste police time investigating?" She looked up at the tall brunet as he swept into the room.

The Consulting Detective ignored her as he strode over to the evidence board. "Interesting, Sam, you are absolutely correct. The ultramarine is the give-away, and the burns on the body were caused by lye. Clever to have found that, well done. Can you spot the other 15th century pigment Anderson should have looked for?" He didn't look at the boy, who had turned with him back towards the board, visibly relaxing the tension in his shoulders.

"HOLMES." Anderson got up from the desk and stalked over, anger and derision in every step. "I told everyone before, there was no paint on the body, no evidence of poison. You were wrong. Just admit it for once."

Taking one look from his office at the coming clash between Sherlock and his least favourite forensic examiner, Greg finished his telephone call in a hurry and came into the room, just in time to hear Sherlock unleash his deductions.

"Anderson, with a brain the size of an ant, it's not surprising that you didn't know what to look for. Did the standard tests for  _paint_ , did you? This wasn't paint that you use on the outside of a house or a wall, idiot. If you knew anything about colour and art, you'd know that you shouldn't look for acrylics or even oils. Traces of egg would be more likely- it's the binding agent used in that Perugino painting which was painted in 1475; the egg tempura holds the pigments in suspension. And those pigments are natural minerals. So, if you used the standard kit and an ALS light then you won't have found anything, surprise, surprise. Ultramarine- that's the blue in the Madonna's robe by the way- is made from a semiprecious stone called Lapis Lazuli. It's made in a very labour intensive exercise that involves lye- a highly toxic alkaloid which burns, and is responsible for the scar tissue on his hands, which I can see from the photos. Look too for traces of smalt. Oh, but I can see you have absolutely no idea what I am talking about, do you? Tell him, Sam." He smirked.

The boy didn't turn around to look at Sally or Anderson, and he had not realised his uncle was now behind him. "Smalt- that's got ground glass. That makes the blue so saturated. It's… _special_." He didn't hide his enthusiasm.

"Right you are, yet again, Sam. So, Anderson, head back to the morgue and look for the  _right_  things this time, including ground glass, lapis and alkaloid poisoning; specifically, pyrrolizidine alkaloidosis which should appear in the smooth muscles and the liver."

Anderson scowled at him, but before he could open his mouth, Lestrade intervened. "Just finish that report you are writing, and then go check out the body again." It was an order, and delivered in a tone that said,  _don't argue_.

Sherlock scanned the room and saw the A&A team officer Sanders. He said quietly to the DI. "We need to talk, in private." He gestured toward Lestrade's office.

As soon as the door to his office was closed, Lestrade just leaned back against the desk and watched as the consulting detective began to pace like a caged animal.

"Was Rotterdam helpful?" Greg prompted.

"Yes- very. And the Commissioner is not going to be pleased, Lestrade. Someone in the A&A Squad is turning a blind eye, not Sanders, but I don't think it's wise to make an accusation like that within his ear shot until we've identified the actual culprit. Fake export licenses are changing hands, probably brokered by the officer, most likely in exchange for money, although I can't rule out blackmail. The smuggling ring is run out of the Galliardi Gallery, and it's also providing a money laundering service for clients who want to clean up their money by purchasing bad art and re-selling it at inflated prices. The smugglers are happy to handle stolen goods as well- hence, the heist."

Lestrade looked on wide eyed as the revelations kept coming.

"The Perugino Madonna is the key. It was stolen like the others to order, but while the others were taken off the museum walls, the Madonna was being restored. That's where the guard comes in. Not a guard at all- his real name is Johaness Vanhuysen, and he's Dutch, and an art restorer. His mum does work for the Gallery, and offered his services to finish the restoration before it was sold onto a Japanese buyer. So, if Anderson ever does do his job properly and finds the pigment traces, he will be able to link the body to the theft. Ultramarine used in a fifteenth century Italian painting is very different from modern versions, so should be conclusive."

Greg watched as Sherlock reached one side of the small office, spun on his heel and started the three strides back to the other side, delivering his deductions as if punctuating each step.

"We'll have to set up a sting to catch the Gallery owner, who is the lynchpin of the smuggling ring, but I think I can do that once we get your bent officer into the operation."

The DI interjected, "But, why did the guard- well, your restorer- get killed? I don't get that."

Sherlock just looked at him, as if he'd confessed to being an idiot. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

Lestrade smirked, "No, Sherlock, it isn't. Do I have to get your flatmate John Watson down here to translate your stuff into something approaching normal language, or are you just willing to dumb it down for once?"

“John’s working part time as a locum, couldn’t get off to come to Amsterdam- and he doesn’t like art cases.” Exasperated, Sherlock started off on a long detailed explanation of how the smugglers had fallen out over the five paintings, and how the restorer had been killed to deliver a message from one faction to the other.

oOo

Outside in the team area, Sam drifted away from the Evidence Board to the computer and was using the internet to investigate the chemical composition of different artist pigments. He was trying to figure why ultramarine was not used in the other paintings, even though they had blue in them.

Sally watched the boy hug his knees to his chest while sitting at the keyboard. There was a barely perceptible rocking motion as he watched the screen intently. She turned to Anderson and said very quietly, "Don, there's something not quite right about that kid." The crime scene investigator peered at the boy. "What do you mean?"

"No eye contact, look at the way he's sitting. Lestrade's a bit protective- it all adds up; I think he's in a special school, too; I remember the Guv mentioning it before once a couple of years ago. Learning difficulties or something."

Anderson just snorted. "Yeah, well, Lestrade has a thing about waifs and strays, doesn't he?!"

Sally got up and walked over to where Sam was working, and asked "You know Holmes, then?"

Sam didn't look up, just nodded and carried on scrolling through the PDF he was reading. The rocking became a little more obvious.

"Well, I think you'd better be careful. He's not a good role model."

Sam kept rocking, but slower, and then stopped. "Why?"

"Why what? Do you know what a role model is?" 

"No, why'd you call him that word?"

She looked blank.

Sam didn't look at her but answered quietly. "Freak."

"Well, I would have thought that was obvious. He's weird. Not normal. He just walks in and tells everyone they're stupid and comes out with the most outlandish stuff. He's rude, aggressive, childish and spoilt."

"But…if he's right, what's it matter how he says it?"

"Sorry ..Sam?" She tried to remember what Sherlock had called the boy. "Just be careful- I mean, Sherlock's not exactly…housetrained. "

Anderson finished typing his report, pressed the print button and decided to join in. "Yeah, kid, that guy is nuts, wacko, psycho, needs to be kept out of polite society."

Sam wouldn't look at him or Sally. "No, that's wrong. He's…brilliant."

"Oh, God, Sally, the kid's got a case of hero-worship for the Freak." Anderson laughed out loud.

Sam looked flustered and brought his arms around his chest. Then he shook his head, saying in a loud voice, "You're wrong."

"Kid, let me explain." Sally wanted to try to smooth things over, wouldn't help her career to get Lestrade annoyed with her, but on the other hand, she wasn't the boy's babysitter either.

Sam got there faster because he was getting angry. "No, you're both wrong. Sherlock is like me, but he's a genius and I wish I was, too."

Sally went still. "What do you mean….like you?"

Sam looked upset, then seemed to get a grip. "My mum says that when people don't understand me, I should tell them that I'm autistic and ask them to be nice. So, I'm asking you, be nice."

Sally was trying to digest this when Anderson asked the question. "Why do you say that Sherlock Holmes is like you? Do you think he's autistic?"

"He's like me, he told me. We see things differently. He said we have to explain that to people who don't see things as well as we do."

Anderson's face lit up. "Oh My God, SALLY! It fits, it really does! We've been thinking all these years that the guy's a prick and it turns out he's actually a mental defective!"

Sally saw the boy's face crumple. "Phillip, that wasn't the most tactful…"

But when she turned to look at Anderson, she saw that Sherlock had come up behind the CSE officer and had him in a rather uncomfortable grip, his wrist pinned behind his back. In a voice that was tight with repressed fury, the baritone words came. "With me, officer, I need a word in private, right now."

Sally watched as Anderson was virtually frogmarched into the corridor and out of sight. When she turned back, it was to see the disbelief and disappointment on Lestrade's face. "Detective Sergeant Donovan, I heard that. You and Anderson are to see me later this afternoon about the police service's commitment to equality and diversity. In the meantime, I want you to take an early lunch, and I suggest that you consider very carefully what your explanation is going to be. Sam, come with me, please." He didn't touch the boy, but he held a protective arm between Sam and Sally as the two went back into his office.

Around the corner, out of sight of Sam and the rest, Sherlock pushed Anderson against the wall and placed a hand around the officer's neck.

"Hey!?" Anderson struggled and tried to escape.

Sherlock's grip merely tightened. Not enough to do more than bruise, just enough pressure on the carotid artery to make Anderson light headed.

Even as black dots danced in front of his eyes, Anderson couldn't resist. "Shouldn't you be rocking in a corner somewhere, Freak? Or maybe you're so rude because you used to bang your head against the wall all time."

"Anderson." It came out as a baritone purr. "You can be as vile as I expect you to be- to me. But if I ever hear that you have been so cruel to Lestrade's nephew again, then you will have to answer for it. People on the Spectrum are not usually a danger to others, but, just so there is no misunderstanding here, there are exceptions, and I am one of them." He applied just a little more pressure, enough to make Anderson's knees start to buckle. "Just remember, you're the one who called me a psychopath." Then he released him and turned away.

When Sherlock got into the DI's office, he was calm and collected. "Lestrade, how about if I take Sam with me to the Gallery? I'd like to take a casual look around."

Greg looked at Sam, who nodded vigorously. "Please, I'd like that!"

Greg looked a little sternly at Sherlock. "Only if you can promise that you won't pull any of your usual tricks. No haring off after suspects, or sticking your nose into places that it doesn't belong. You'll have to be a responsible adult, Sherlock."

"You can trust me, Lestrade." Sherlock just smiled and gestured to Sam to follow him. "We'll be back at tea time." He strode out with Sam in tow, talking as they went. "Fancy having lunch at the National Art Gallery? It's early enough that there won't be many people there, and not too noisy. I can show you another Perugino, and we'll talk about pigments. That's in the Sainsbury Wing, and we will have the painting all to ourselves- the tourists just hang around the big name artists. We can get that in before getting to the Galliardi Gallery. Much more interesting than boring routine police work."

Greg watched fondly as two of the most interesting people he knew left the Yard.

**  
**


End file.
